


My Husband

by Sani86



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, He's round and perfect okay, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), SO MUCH FLUFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29733048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sani86/pseuds/Sani86
Summary: Just Crowley, talking about his perfect husband.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 68





	My Husband

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ineffablefool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablefool/gifts).



> Sooo.... I had a few wines, and regarded the lovely cuddle-human that is somehow my husband... and then this happened.
> 
> Dedicated to Jack, who writes the most beautiful fat Azirpahale content in the world. Seriously, if you haven't read [If Not Now, When](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20936816) yet - go do it! Warm fuzzies guaranteed. 

I have this husband. 

Yes, okay. I know that makes me sound like that comedian - what’s his name again? Ugh, dunno, don’t care. Not the point. 

The point is. 

The  _ point. Is.  _

My husband. 

I have this husband. He’s the most indescribably fucking perfect thing you could imagine. Seriously. I don’t really do the whole “god” thing, but if there really were some benevolent, flawless being incapable of doing any wrong, and they decided to channel all of their infallible perfection into creating one single perfect human, they’d make my husband. 

I mean, look at him. Just  _ look at him _ . Isn’t he incredible? I’ve been staring at him my whole fucking life, it feels like, and I still can’t tear my eyes away. Honestly, an eternity isn’t enough time to appreciate him. 

And then some insolent, mindless, peabrained fucking adolescent  _ halfwit _ had the fucking  _ nerve _ to suggest to him that he should take up a gym membership. You made my angel sad, you insensitive moron. How fucking  _ dare _ you?!

Really. What do they teach you kids in school these days? You can’t improve on perfection. 

I mean, look at him. Just  _ look at him _ .

Isn’t he incredible?

Have you even looked at his eyes? Have you seen the way they change colour as his mood shifts? Just now they’ll be a stormy grey; then later they’ll be the serene blue of a placid ocean on a windstill summer’s day; yet another time, glinting with golden-green humour. And those little crinkles at the corners of his eyes… their lines describe the equation of pure fucking joy, let me tell you. That, and the glorious parabola of his lips parted in laughter. Honestly, I deserve a medal for keeping myself back from kissing them every moment of every day.

Look further down, if you will. The soft folds of his neck, just waiting to be snuggled. The gentle slope of his chest, so perfect for resting my tired head against after a long day. That soft curve of his belly…oh dear god (for lack of a better expletive), how I love to wrap my arms around it, to bury my face in that softness and breathe in his scent. It’s the most perfect pillow in the world. And - can I tell you a little secret? - under all those fussy bowtied shirts and waistcoats he insists on wearing, there’s an endless wonderland of velvety skin, pale like the most beautiful ivory, sprinkled with pink stretch marks like tiger stripes. I like to trace them with my fingertips, with my lips, pressing my worship into every inch of his skin. 

And his legs. His calves, his thighs, his arse. Dear saints and demons alike,  _ his arse _ . It’s a work of art in its own right, you know? All those mathematical geniuses, Euclid and Da Vinci and whatnot, all wasted their lives trying to describe the perfect geometry, when all it would have taken was one glimpse of my angel leaning over to pick up a book. That, right there, is the most beautiful curve in the known universe. You can’t convince me otherwise. I should know, I’ve cupped my hands around it. 

And speaking of hands. Have you seen his? When he holds something that’s precious to him - a rare book, perhaps, or a fine china teacup. That’s everything you need to know about worship, about reverence, right there. Makes me wish I was a book. 

Come to think of it…

Sometimes he holds me like that. Can’t imagine why. But I’m not complaining. Oh hell no, not for a moment. 

Do you know what it’s like, being held by an angel? Have you ever had those strong, sure arms wrap around you? Because let me tell you, it’s fucking indescribable. Words just can’t do it. But I’ll try anyway. 

Imagine being in your favourite place in the world. A place where nothing bad can touch you, where no-one who means you harm can even get near you. A place where (this is the scary bit) every single part of you is known and seen - yes, even those bits that you hide from everyone - and still somehow, miraculously, there’s nothing but love and acceptance. The only thing your heart hears is _ “you are my beloved, and there is no flaw in you.” _ And you know it’s not true, you know you’re made up of 95% flaw, but you also know that here, in this place, somehow, it doesn’t matter. You are loved and cherished and adored regardless. 

You got it? You can imagine it? Well, that’s what it’s like when my angel wraps his arms around me. The heavens and earth could expire around us, and I wouldn’t give a damn. 

Because he is my world. 

So yeah. I have this husband. And he’s everything. 

  
Don’t you fucking  _ dare _ try and tell him otherwise. 


End file.
